by Purser, Ann
She stood up from her desk. “That’s my weekend settled,” she said to Jeems, who, as usual, sat at her feet while she was working. “Now, this afternoon I’ll go into Tresham to see Hazel and buy some paint from the wholesaler.”
“Talking to yourself again,” said Gran, coming in with a handful of post. “Postie’s late again. I reckon she ought to be replaced. Hey, Lois, that’s a good idea! Why don’t we offer the flat to a reliable postman. Special rates for assisting in post office on pension days?”
“Postmen, or postwomen, don’t forget, have to be appointed by head office, or some such. And anyway, we want as much as we can get in rent, without offering special rates. We shall see who comes to view. I’d be happy with a nice middle-aged professional bachelor, who’d be equal to burglars and snakes, and good at housework. Josie might hear again from that actor bloke.”
“Well, all I can say is good luck to whoever takes it on. And I promise to keep quiet about recent invasions of snakes, spiders, toads, rats and frogs. Sounds biblical, doesn’t it? One of them plagues in the Old Testament. At least I escaped boils. And when you’re in Tresham, can you get another couple of rat traps?”
*
Hazel Thornbull was the wife of a Farnden farmer, and had worked for Lois since she first founded the New Brooms cleaning service. When they set up the Tresham office, Hazel immediately applied for the job as manager, and with her small daughter now at school for a full day, and her mother able to help out with her timetable, she had established a well-organised office in the heart of town. This morning had been busy, with two of the cleaning girls coming in for changes in rotas, and a new client in Waltonby to be visited.
“So what’s new this afternoon?” said Lois, coming through the door. “And how’s your family? Busy time on the farm?”
“Morning, Mrs M. Everybody’s fine, except John, and he’s exhausted, as usual! Still, it’s been a good year so far, for once. A happy farmer is a rare bird!”
They got down to business then, and Lois gave Hazel a flier advertising the flat to stick up in the office window.
The potential client for cleaning was from Waltonby, the new owner of the old vicarage, a massive Victorian house built in the days when maids occupied the attic rooms and gardeners tended the extensive grounds.
“What sort of people are they?” asked Lois.
Hazel sniffed. “Usual newly rich. Probably won the lottery. Wife overdressed and tame husband on a lead.”
“Hazel! Don’t forget our motto: ‘We clean; you pay.’ And that’s all we need.”
“Mrs M, you just made that up. ‘We sweep cleaner’ is our motto!”
“True. But it really doesn’t matter who or what they are. We’ve got all sorts on our books. I’ll make an appointment to see them, and let you know what transpires.”
“Anything new on that poor dog story? I reckon it was one of those horrible things old Pettison’s got in his zoo. John reckons it should be cleared out altogether. He’s always worried that the things brought over from foreign countries could bring diseases that turn into epidemics and run riot in our farm animals. I suppose there are special checks on them at customs and so on?”
“Small things, insects an’ that, can come hidden in luggage and are never spotted by customs, so Gran says,” Lois answered. “But that’s Gran, so I expect John has nothing to worry about. Now, I’ll just nip up the road and see if Dot is back from work. Let me know if you get any replies to the flat ad.”
Dot Nimmo’s house was at the top of the same street, and Lois parked outside and knocked. As she stood waiting for Dot to come to the door, she noticed a van parked on the opposite side of the road. It had a snarling tiger emblazoned on the side, and at the wheel sat Robert Pettison, his head partly shielded by a newspaper as if to hide himself from Lois’s gaze.
“Morning, Mrs M!” Dot beamed at Lois. “Just the person I was wanting to see. Come on in.”
“Just a minute, Dot,” Lois said. “What’s that van doing over there? Is there somebody living there that works at the zoo?”
“Oh that,” said Dot. “It’s the zoo boss. He’s got a lady friend he calls on every Friday afternoon. Has to wait until her husband goes off to work after lunch, though. Beats me how hubby don’t cotton on to a so-and-so tiger sitting outside his front door every week! Still, he’s reckoned to be one of them pimps, except he’s got just the one woman for sale. Funny kind of setup . . . Now come on in, and have a refreshing cup of tea.”
Lois stood at Dot’s front window and looked over at the tiger van. “Hey, the front door of that house is opening. Now a little man is coming out. He’s not even looking at the van. Wait a sec, Dot. I want to see if Pettison gets out. Ah, yes, there he goes. Has to duck to get inside that door! I can just see a brassy blonde head inside. What’s she like, his Friday mistress?”
“No better than she should be,” said Dot primly. “Come and sit down. I’ve got an item of interesting info for you.”
Twelve
Saturday, the busiest day in the life of Tresham Zoo, and Robert Pettison was awakened by the sound of a shot. He instinctively curled up under the bedclothes. When he came to his senses and realised it was probably a bird flying into his bedroom window, he decided to investigate.
Downstairs, he unlocked the back door and went outside. It had been a sharp crack, and he guessed the bird would be either unconscious or dead. In the flowerbed under his window, something black and white, with flashes of red, lay under a shrub, and he bent closer. It was a woodpecker, and its eyes were flickering. He bent down and touched it. It shivered and moved its wings. He put his hand over the pulsating body and picked it up. It chattered at him and struggled, trying to attack him with its long, sharp beak, but he had it securely in his grasp and went quickly downstairs in his nightshirt. He found a suitable box, and put it in carefully, where it cowered and glared at him, chattering harshly.
“There you are then, my beauty,” he said. “What a smart gentleman! We’ll see that you are safe and well, and then you can fly off to the wood.”
The bird was silent then, and from where he had put it on the kitchen table, it watched with a baleful eye as he ate his toast and drank coffee.
“Don’t look at me like that, sir,” said Pettison. “I have no intention of putting you in a cage in my zoo. The law would be down on me like a ton of the proverbial bricks. But my staff would, I am sure, be pleased to meet you, and once we have established that you are not injured, you may fly away like Peter, like Paul!”
“Morning, Mr Pettison. Talking to yourself as usual.” It was his cleaning lady, Mrs Richardson, who was the only person brave enough to speak her mind to him.
“Good morning, and a fine morning it is!”
“Maybe for some,” she answered gloomily. “I’m not stopping. Just come to give you my notice. I’m leaving, as from today. My hubby says I’m not to work here alongside them animals any more. That story in the papers of a German Shepherd being poisoned in a barn was the final straw for him. Snakes and dangerous insects! Plenty of people wanting cleaners, so I’ll be going. And you take care, Mr Pettison. You could be next. And if I was you, I’d release that bird before the RSPB gets here.”
Pettison stared at her. “But Mrs Richardson, you only clean the house, nowhere near our special people? Surely your husband realises that?”
“Oh, stuff your special people! They’re just a load of nasty creatures, and my husband says I’m to quit. Once he’s made up his mind, there’s no moving him, and I must say I’m not sorry,” she replied. Her face was closed, allowing no more persuasive conversation, and with a quick nod she turned on her heel and got as far as the door before turning back.
“Oh, an’ if you make any trouble for me about my wages, an’ that nasty tax inspector, don’t forget what I know about you! They’ll put you in a cage yourself, and for a nice long time!” With that parting shot, she was gone.
The bird began chattering again, and Pettison cursed Mrs Ric
hardson. “Nasty creatures, indeed! A case of the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think?” he said. “Now, sir, I must look for another cleaner.”
He found the telephone directory, services section, and looked down the list of cleaners. “From now on,” he addressed the woodpecker, “I shall use one of these cleaning businesses. One with a professional approach. Do the job, mind your own business, and leave. Ah, now sir, this looks likely. ‘New Brooms, We Sweep Cleaner.’ I like that!” He jotted down the number, and went out to his study and the telephone.
*
Lois was in her office when the call came in, and for one minute she wasn’t sure she had heard aright. “Robert Pettison, did you say? The zoo man?”
“Yes, of course. Now, madam, you sound familiar. Have we met before?”
“Um, yes, we have. Briefly. I came to see you about one of your snakes that escaped and was found in my daughter’s shop. How can I help you?”
“Mrs Meade, isn’t it? I’m afraid I must have a wrong number. I am looking for New Brooms, a cleaning service. Sorry to trouble you.”
“Hey, wait! You have got New Brooms. It’s my business, long established and extremely reliable.” She was doing some quick thinking, and in her mind had Dot Nimmo safely installed as cleaner and spy in Cameroon Hall.
“Mm, well.” There was a long pause, and Lois could hear a tapping sound in the background.
“You still there, Mr Pettison?”
“Yes, I have given some thought to the matter, and I shall be glad if you could send a woman today. In about an hour’s time, please. Tell her to report at the gate.”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t do that. I have a strict routine when taking on clients, and that involves my coming along to see you first. I shall need to estimate how long the work will take—just a quick tour around the house. Then we can sort out rates of pay, etcetera. You will appreciate I also need to make sure my staff will be safe, bearing in mind the animals and our unfortunate experience. When would it suit you for me to come along?”
The tapping sound was now accompanied by a loud guffaw. “Splendid, Mrs Meade!” he said. “Would eleven o’clock suit you? And I’ll make sure none of our people are on the loose! Goodbye!”
“Idiot,” Lois said aloud. “Still, Dot will be more than a match for him.”
*
Derek sat in the kitchen, reading the sports pages of the newspaper. “New client, and guess who?” said Lois, coming in with a smile.
“David Beckham?”
“Of course not! No, you’ll never guess, so I’ll tell you.”
“I know,” said Gran, coming in from the larder. “It’s that bloke at the zoo. What’s ’isname.”
“Mum, you’re a marvel,” said Lois. “And his name is Pettison. I’m going to see him this morning at eleven. Better get my skates on.”
“Lois! I forbid it!” Derek had gone very red in the face. “Of all people, he is the most sinister old fool I’ve ever met. Don’t forget his lousy snake frightened us all to death.”
“Too right!” said Gran. “You must be out of your mind, Lois. I’m with Derek on this.”
“I don’t think you have met him, Derek,” Lois said calmly. “And I have, and am sure no harm can come from my going to see him. I don’t have to take him on if I decide not to. I was thinking Dot Nimmo might be good for the job. What do you think, Mum?”
Gran sat down heavily at the table. “Well, I suppose if you must even consider it, I can’t think of anyone I would rather have eaten by a bear than Dot Nimmo.”
*
Visitors were already arriving at the gate of the zoo, and Pettison had smartened himself up in order to walk around and answer questions from the grockles, as his former cleaner had called them. The more visitors, the more he liked it, not only because they brought in much-needed cash, but they acted as a perfect cover for his other interests.
“Look, Margie,” he said to his employee in the ticket booth, holding out the woodpecker box towards her. “Isn’t he a splendid person? In his full plumage. Not often we see them so closely. I am taking him round to introduce him to a few grockles, and then I shall release him to fly away into the blue yonder.”
“Yes, Mr Pettison. But don’t let him out too near me. Nasty dirty thing. You never know where it’s been. Now, if you’ll let me get on. We’re busy this morning. Good morning!” she added, turning to a family just arriving. “Are there five of you? Children go in half price. Enjoy your visit.”
Margie Turner had worked for the zoo ever since Pettison opened it to the public. She was Tresham born and bred, and knew all about her employer and his Friday assignations. All the staff knew, and it was a source of great amusement to all. “Just imagine the old fool at it with that brassy blonde,” Margie had confided to her friend on the refreshment counter. “She must be desperate for the cash, that’s all I can say.”
“Good morning. I have an appointment with Mr Pettison.” Lois had appeared at the gate, smartly dressed in her business clothes, pinstripe coat and skirt, with her long legs clad in sheer black tights. Good for business, she had told herself. She was well aware that the woman on the gate had rung through to announce her arrival, but Pettison would probably keep her waiting. He was that sort.
As it happened, she was halfway up the drive to the house when a voice called to her from across the wide lawns.
“Good morning! Glad to see you here bang on time! Come along in, and we’ll have coffee.”
His voice was mellifluous and friendly, but Lois shivered. It was a warning, without any doubt, and she followed him with a foolish desire to turn and run.
Thirteen
“I can see you are in dire need of a cleaner, Mr Pettison,” said Lois, looking round the dirty, untidy kitchen. They had had coffee, during which time he refused to talk business, but had given her a colourful history of his life so far. In spite of herself, Lois listened with interest. He had been fascinated by rare animals all his life. He grew up in Africa, where he had kept a small private zoo from the age of ten, and, on returning to England in his forties, had planned a professional setup. This had fitted in with his parents’ intention to buy a large house with parkland in the Midlands, and when they had both died, he had built up his collection until it was internationally known.
“I am afraid Mrs Richardson was not the most reliable of persons,” he said finally, rinsing out the coffee mugs in a sink already full of dishes covered with the detritus of unnumbered previous meals.
“Took you for a ride, I reckon,” said Lois. “Did as little work as possible, and collected her wages with a willing hand. I’ve met one or two Mrs Richardsons, and they don’t last five minutes in my team. Now, can we have a quick look around, and then I’ll give you some facts and figures about how New Brooms can help.”
As they entered the drawing room, which looked out over a well-kept garden and parkland beyond, Lois was struck with the difference between the scruffy interior of the hall, and outside in the grounds, which were immaculate.
“Are you the gardener? It’s certainly in better shape than all this,” she said, indicating the interior of a potentially lovely room. She kept the long, sagging sofa between them. Her professional eye told her that the furniture was good, but in sore need of care and attention. He was beginning to ogle again, and her voice was sharp.
“Gardener? Goodness me, no, I wouldn’t have time! No, we have Mrs Richardson’s husband, an old man who comes every day, seven days a week, rain or shine. He loves this place, and regards the garden and grounds as his own territory. Has a potting shed behind the house, and if it rains or snows, he sits in there and reads thrillers. Oh, and yes, he comes into the kitchen for a cup of tea around eleven o’clock every morning. Your cleaner would be required to make that for him. Now, upstairs, young woman. And don’t worry, I am not the least interested in having my wicked way with you!”
He threw back his head, and the guffaws went on loudly for some time.
“Go
od,” said Lois. “That’s one thing settled. And your reluctance will include any young woman I send to you to clean this dump?”
More laughter followed this, and Lois began to walk around the many bedrooms, itemising what needed to be done, and then walked smartly back down the wide stairway, saying she felt like Anne Boleyn at Hampton Court Palace.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked.
“Anne Boleyn. As in Henry the Eighth’s second wife. Her ghost is said to walk down the grand staircase at the palace, with her head tucked underneath her arm.”
“Your head seems to be securely in place, Mrs Meade. Is there anything more to discuss? Everything else seems acceptable, so when can your cleaning woman start?”
“At eight thirty on Tuesday morning. She will need to come every day for a week to clear the place ready for cleaning. Then once a week should be sufficient. Is that acceptable?”
He nodded, and said he would show her out, as he needed to go down to the gate to see Margie. “Lovely person, Margie Turner,” he said. “Guards the zoo like a policeman on duty!”
*
Lois drove slowly through the centre of town, looking for a place to park. The traffic was heavy, and she sat for several minutes at traffic lights outside the police station. A familiar figure walked towards her and tapped on the car window. It was Cowgill, of course.
